


blessed be the boys time can’t capture

by killerqueenwrites



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe – Immortals, Angst, BAMF Tony Stark, BAMF everyone, Found Family, Gen, Happy Ending, Immortality, It doesn't stick though, Kidnapping, Language, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Team as Family, The Old Guard AU, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Violence, Whump, excess of temporary character death, yet another incredibly niche au courtesy of me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28319238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerqueenwrites/pseuds/killerqueenwrites
Summary: This is how they survive, staying in the shadows, dancing around the edges of humanity. This is how they stay hidden. This, despite never dying, is how they’resafe.In which death is a minor inconvenience, until Peter Parker comes along and changes everything.(The Old Guard AU)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 178
Collections: Avidreaders Avengers completed faves, Avidreaders Spiderman completed faves





	blessed be the boys time can’t capture

**Author's Note:**

> jess. jess. this was your doing, and you know how long i’ve been writing this. i finished it just for you, so please like it because it’s an incredibly niche au that probably only the two of us wanted. happy christmas friend! i would profess my undying love for you but your ego is big enough already 😘
> 
> translations will be in the end notes :)
> 
> warnings for guns, violence, excessive character death, mentions of kidnapping and terrorist activity, medical experimentation, and strong strong language 

Venice, to Tony, has always felt like home. 

No matter how long it’s been, how many years, he can find his way around with ease, keeping to twisting back alleys and staying away from the busy, tourist-crowded squares. He has his favourite routes, his favourite spots, and they’ve rarely changed.

He chooses a rooftop to sit and watch, listening to water lapping, the hum of boat engines down below. His stomach growls, but he can wait. He’s hardly going to starve to death.

Of course, having a favourite anything means being predictable, and that means being easy to find.

_“Dobroye utro, Toshka.”_

“Oh, fuck me,” he says instantly, not turning around. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you too,” Romanova says, all deep red hair and smooth, prowling grace.

“No, you didn’t. What do you want?”

“I have a job for us.”

_“Che due palle?”_ Tony mutters. “When are you going to stop pimping me out?”

“I prefer to think of it as mercenary work, but you do you.”

“I know you get bored, but you don’t have to drag me into it.”

“Actually, the man who approached me requested all four of us.”

“Natalia,” Tony says in despair, “Natalia Romanova, what do you mean he approached you?” 

“I think he has an…inkling about us.”

“And because of that, he wants a job out of us? No one’s supposed to know we exist.”

“It was inevitable,” she says. “Everyone taking selfies at every opportunity, camera quality increasing, social media, facial recognition technology – we couldn’t stay completely invisible forever. And the internet – nothing’s sacred on there. We knew it was only a matter of time before people started noticing.”

“Yeah, as a conspiracy theory, or some dumb internet joke. Not any old asshole sauntering up and soliciting our services–“

“He’s CIA.”

Tony blinks. “Kill him.”

“He has the highest security clearance available, you think that’s not gonna cause us ten times as many problems?”

“I don’t care. Kill him.”

“What happened to no unnecessary violence?”

“This is necessary,” Tony insists, “very very necessary.”

“We don’t have to take the job.”

“So? He’s not going to forget–“

“I’ve set us up a meeting. Morocco, thirty-six hours. At least hear what he has to say.”

Tony doesn’t reply, just stares out over the city.

“It’s Natasha again, by the way.”

“Oh, yeah?” Tony says with a wry grin. “Who’d you piss off this time?”

“Probably MI5.”

She’s the most reckless one of all of them, the one most reluctant to leave humanity behind. She flits in and out of shadows, lingering in the light much longer than Tony has dared to for centuries. Not an aloof observer, but an active participant in the world that moves without them.

“Stop the internal monologue and don’t try to pretend you don’t help people that need it.”

“Fucking mind reader,” Tony mutters. “And not as much as I should. I’m – I’m tired. Too many people, too many bad things happening. Every day, every possible place. We haven’t made a difference since the population was under two million.”

“We make differences to people. Change their world. At least consider this job.”

“I will consider it.”

Natasha kisses him on the cheek and climbs to her feet with swanlike grace, sauntering back across the rooftop.

“Wait, you said he wanted all four of us?”

_“¡Adiós, querido!”_ she calls over her shoulder.

_Fuck’s sake._

* * *

It’s been a few decades since Tony was last in Marrakesh. It’s affected, as almost everywhere else has been, by the rapid changes of the last century. The hustle and bustle, the smell of spices, the haggling around market stalls — that’s exactly as he remembers.

Natasha meets him in the hotel reception, perched on the edge of a fountain. Her sunglasses cover half her face, but she’s let her red hair grow out again, and Tony would know it anywhere.

“They’re already up there,” she says without preamble. “Got a room overlooking the cafe. Bucky’s staring so hard he might set the table on fire.”

“In a permanent state of brood, that one,” Tony says, and accepts her hug with an enthusiasm that surprises him. Maybe it has been too long.

_“Te he echado de menos,”_ she murmurs.

“I missed you too.”

She pulls back, smiles and gestures with her head towards the elevator. “Shall we?”

* * *

“Tony!” Steve says, with a surprising amount of enthusiasm, and crushes him in a hug.

“Okay,” Tony wheezes. “I missed your big strong arms, too.”

“It is good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too.” The instant Steve releases him, Bucky slings an arm around his shoulders. “Aren’t you supposed to be staring at the restaurant?”

“He’s not there yet. I figured my least favourite deserved a hug.”

“Oh, it’s been too long without your verbal abuse,” Tony says, batting his hands away. “Get off me.” 

Natasha snorts as she moves to stand by the window. Five minutes together, and it’s like the past fifty years don’t even matter.

“How’s it been?” Bucky asks.

“Busy,” Tony says. “Humanity decided they were going to be extra despicable this past century. Well, you know. More efficiently and industrially despicable.”

“Way to generalise,” Steve says.

“You know what I mean.”

“Mm.” 

“And here you are anyway, ready to help,” Natasha says, not shifting her gaze. 

”There are always innocents.” Tony joins her at the window. “What’s our play?”

“We’re going down to speak to him. Steve is gonna hang around on the street. Bucky’s up here in case things go south:” 

“Sounds good.” Tony offers his arm to Natasha with a grin. “Shall we?” For a moment, they’re in a ballroom, her in an elegant dress and him in tails, gliding around the edge of the crowd as they wait for their target to stumble his way to somewhere quieter. And then he blinks and he’s back in Marrakesh, a horn blaring over the sounds of raised voices.

“Just like old times.” She accepts his arm with an answering smile. “The A Team.”

* * *

“Ross,” the man in the suit says, shaking their hands over the café table, “Everett Ross. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for making the time.”

“Not at all,” Tony drawls, and ignores Natasha’s barely audible sigh. Time is something they have more than enough of, and he’s not above making jokes about it. “You’re CIA, correct?”

“Ex-CIA, actually. I do some private work now.”

“Oh, my associate didn’t mention that,” Tony says with a sharp smile at said associate. “What do you do?”

“Ah, this and that. With respect, I’d like to direct you towards the reason we’re here. It is time sensitive.”

Tony nods for him to continue.

“We have a situation in South Sudan,” Ross says. “Twenty-one school girls were abducted in the middle of the day by a local insurgent group and taken to their compound fifty miles east.” He pulls out a satellite image and lays it on the table. “No demands have been made of anyone, but we’ve pulled every aerial view we can, and not one of them has picked up any extra food or water being brought in.”

“Any special forces team could do this,” Tony says. No, he’s not getting involved. It doesn’t have to be them. 

“But I’ve heard you’re the best,” Ross says, with a certain note in his voice, “and not affiliated with any particular country.”

Tony leans across the table. “If we go in, all of us with American accents, and the shit hits the fan, do you think that will matter? No. I’m not interested in starting World War Three.”

“The oldest is thirteen,” Ross replies, and puts another picture on top of the first. A class photo, young girls in their uniforms. Children. Babies. “The youngest, eight.”

Tony inhales deeply and stands. “We’ll invoice you when it’s done.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Natasha shaking hands with Ross again, but he keeps walking, weaving around a donkey cart and entering the wrong hotel in case Ross is still watching.

* * *

“So?” Steve asks.

“Tony took the job.”

“Of course.”

“Twenty-one kidnapped schoolgirls,” Tony says bluntly. “We have the skills to get them out.”

“Where?”

“South Sudan.”

Steve winces. “Tricky, but it could be done. How was our guy?”

“I don’t trust him,” Bucky says with a wry grin, “but I like him. He made me.”

“You’re kidding?” Natasha says.

“No. Waved right down my scope, all cheerful and smug. Bastard.”

“So he’s good.” Tony purses his lips. “Keep half an eye on him. We leave in two hours.”

* * *

The helicopter drops them off miles out, not wanting to risk detection, and they walk the rest of the way. Tony can’t say he’s ever been in this exact part of the Sahara before, but Natasha has an impeccable memory and Steve has a few hundred years of navigation practice on the average human, so he’s not worried about getting lost. 

Thirst comes quickly, then hunger, so they stop and eat. Ross had given them some rations, and Natasha, as always, pulls out whatever high-calorie snacks are in stores these days.

“The calories help,” she says.

“I may be three-thousand years old, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know science,” Tony grumbles, and grabs a handful of horrifically mutated tortilla chips.

* * *

They wait until dark, keeping watch through Bucky’s sniper scope. There’s very little movement – no vehicles, only a couple of men – and something is _off_ here, not quite right.

But the kids. There’re kids in there. So when they look to him, Tony nods, and they move forward. 

* * *

There are no kids.

The compound is dark, silent, empty but for a few easily-dispatched guards. Room after empty room, until they hit the biggest one, the central one. Still nothing.

“What the fuck…?” Bucky murmurs.

And then Tony sees it. A red blinking light. The glint of an automatic barrel in the dim light. “Motherf–”

* * *

He’s been here before, over and over again, and time: the same question. _Is this it? Will this time be the one?_

And each time: the same answer. 

_Not yet._

* * *

He hasn’t fought side-by-side, back-to-back with the others for decades now, but they fall back into a rhythm perfectly. Like they’ve never been apart.

Natasha yanks her knife out of a man’s neck. Bucky fires a last shot and spits out a bullet casing.

“We all good?” Tony calls. “Steve?”

“Pissed the hell off.”

Tony stalks forward, slow, deliberate, making sure to weave around the bodies splayed out on the floor. He looks up, finds the red light, stares straight into the camera, and shoots.

* * *

They hitch a ride on a freight train and sit in uncomfortable silence.

“I’m moving to a cave,” Steve announces. “Buck, you coming with?”

“Duh. You two, get your own caves. We’re riding this out for fifty years.”

Tony snaps. “There is no riding this out!” he yells. “We’re done, you got that? We’re fucked! He’s fucking CIA!”

“Ex-CIA.”

“Like that matters. We’re on fucking video being shot to pieces and walking it off. All four of us. What world government isn’t gonna be interested in that? If he has no loyalty to US intelligence, he’ll just sell it off to the highest bidder. You!” He rounds on Natasha. “Why did you even bring this to us? You’ve exposed us.”

“He already knew,” she shoots back. “I thought he just wanted us for a job.”

“He could only have suspected, and now, thanks to you, he has the proof to show to anyone who wants it.”

“Thanks to me?” Natasha snarls. “You wouldn’t have touched this with a ten-foot pole if he hadn’t brought up kids. Better put your heartstrings away before the next person to come along tugs on them too. Or is it once a father, always a father?”

Tony turns away before he does something like punch her in the face or throw her off the train. She’d catch up to them after a few days, but he knows he’d regret it almost instantly.

“Sorry,” Natasha mutters, then louder, “Tony, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

He offers his hand and she takes it, tangling their fingers together. “Surprised you couldn’t see that double-cross coming a mile off.”

“You’re right. I should’ve. I put us all in danger.”

“We’ll find a way,” Tony says. “We always do.”

* * *

Tony sleeps. Dreams, in flashes.

_Flash._ A man is leaning over him, glasses, beard, kind eyes filled with tears.

_Flash._ Blood. So much blood, bubbling up between trembling fingers.

_Flash._ “Stay awake, Peter, sweetheart, please – oh God, oh God–“

_Flash._ Suffocating, choking on hot liquid.

_Flash._ A dirty sidewalk. Tower blocks climbing into the sky. A yellow taxi speeding through an intersection.

He sits up, gasping, feeling for the hole in his chest that he already knows isn’t there. Natasha is doing the same, and Bucky.

“Another one?” Steve says, breathless. “That soon?”

“Named Peter,” Tony says, letting the analytical side of his brain take over. “GSW, most likely. Big city. I’m going New York.”

“I saw the sign outside the store.” Steve’s already scribbling in his notebook. “Delmar’s, New York. Peter. GSW.”

“I saw his face,” Bucky says. “He looks – God, he’s so young. He’s a baby. What’s the universe doing, sending us a kid?”

“Family tickets at Disneyworld,” Tony drawls. 

“Do you think that was his dad?” Natasha says, and the mood drops like a stone in still water.

“Every one of us had a family when it happened,” Tony says. “He’s not special.”

“He’s a _kid_.”

“We need to move fast,” Bucky says. “The first time always takes the longest, but we don’t have long before he’s up and walking again.”

“My laptop is at the safehouse,” Natasha says, stretching like a cat. “I’ll look into hospital records. You’re sure it’s New York?”

Steve shrugs. “Look up that Delmar place. Doesn’t sound like a chain, so I’ll tell you if the sign matches.”

“You got it.” A famous Romanoff smirk is being aimed right at Tony all of a sudden. “What d’you say, Boss?”

“I say why am I only the boss when it suits you?” Tony sighs. “Go ahead to the Paris house. I’ll meet you there. Start looking for Ross; we need to head him off before he does something with that footage.”

“And you get the new one?”

“Yeah,” Tony says with another sigh, “I get the new one.”

* * *

Peter dreams.

A flash of red hair. Laughter. Sharp words in a foreign language. Blood. A man with a beard. Not Ben, but his eyes are warm, kind.

And then wakes up on a cold metal table. White walls. A sheet covering his body.

“What the hell…?” he breathes. Is he in a lab? A hospital? He sits up, sliding off the table, and stumbles – barefoot – to the door.

No shoes. No clothes. Where are his clothes? Why is it so cold down here?

The door opens after some frantic jiggling of the handle, and he’s off down the corridor, naked but for a pair of boxers, and skids to a halt in front of the first sign he sees.

_Mortuary_. Pointing in the direction he’s just come from.

Peter shakes his head, noticing as he does a man in what looks like scrubs coming towards him. “Excuse me? Excuse me, I’m sorry, I’m lost – I woke up down here, maybe there’s been a mistake–“

“Damn,” the man says, almost amused, “good thing I took out the cameras before I came down here, right?”

Which is a _really_ weird thing to say, but, “I know you,” Peter says. “Sorry, I – I recognise you from somewhere.”

“Had any weird dreams lately?” the man says.

That’s it. The shaped beard, the warm eyes. Now his memory’s been jogged, Peter remembers him no problem. Which is super creepy. “Uh – how, how did you know that?”

“Lucky guess. All right, kid, I need you to come with me.”

“Um,” Peter says, “no?”

“Wasn’t a question.”

“I need to find my aunt and uncle–“

“You just woke up in a morgue, so how do you think that’s gonna go down?”

“Well, it was a mistake! Obviously! I need to get home–“

“Nuh-uh,” the man says. “Not your home anymore. Far as they’re concerned, you’re a walking corpse. You died. I felt it happen. Your old life is gone now.”

“I didn’t die,” Peter says, and to his embarrassment, his lip trembles, his eyes well up. “I – I’m not dead.”

“Oh, fuck me,” the man says, exhausted derision dripping from every word. “You really are a baby.”

And then he shoots Peter in the head.

* * *

“…coming round now, I think.”

“Goddamn, what’d you shoot him for?”

“He wasn’t coming.”

“You mean your superior people skills didn’t do the trick?” Then, “I know you’re listening, kid.”

Peter’s eyes fly open in shock.

“Stop it with that shit, Romanoff,” someone says nearby. “You’ll have people thinking you’re a fucking psychic.”

Slowly, his surroundings come into focus. A dark room, curtains drawn. Three people around him: a man with long dark hair, a red-haired woman who’s watching him like an intriguing science experiment, and the man from the hospital.

The man who, in a split second, had pulled a gun from his waistband and shot Peter in the forehead at point-blank range. Peter flinches away, but that movement makes the light glint off the woman’s hair and it’s exactly like he saw in his dream-vision-thing.

“Two deaths in,” she says brightly. “It’ll get quicker after this, don’t worry. Steve’s making you some food – helps speed the healing along.”

“Uh, can I have a phone?” Peter says. “I need to tell the cops I’ve been kidnapped by crazy people. Actually certifiable.”

“Please,” the man from the hospital says, “technically the most I’ve done is grave robbing.”

_Grave robbing._ Peter shivers. _You’re a walking corpse. Two deaths in. You died._ “Oh, my God,” he breathes, “oh, God.”

“Kid.” The man’s face is in his line of sight. Fingers being snapped somewhere. “Hey, come back to us. Look, it’s been brought to my attention that I could have done a much better job of explaining what’s going on with all this. A much much better job. That’s my bad. It’s been so long since I’ve done this that I forgot how – awful it is, really.”

“How long has it been?” Peter whispers, longing for the answer, dreading it.

“Since our last newcomer? About two hundred years. Since that was me? Eh, three thousand years, give or take. Can’t remember exactly.”

“Three thousand years,” Peter says, and swallows. “Jesus – okay. Okay.” He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed. Surprisingly, being shot in the head doesn’t seem to have affected him much.

“Where are you going?”

“Uh, home? I need to – need to tell my aunt and uncle – god, Uncle Ben–“

“Just you and them, huh?” 

“Please,” Peter says, “they’ve raised me my whole life. They – thinking I’m dead, it’s gonna kill them.”

“You are dead,” the woman says gently. “Mugging went wrong, got shot in the chest. You bled out in the street. They’re going to have a funeral, and the home will tell them it’s closed casket to hide the fact the hospital lost a body – you’d be surprised how often that happens – and they’re going to mourn, and they’re going to continue living their life.”

“No,” Peter says, and tears are rising in his throat again. “No, I – I don’t _want_ this. I want to go home.”

All three of them look – more than sad, they’re devastated.

“I’m sorry,” the man with long hair says. “You can’t. Even if they don’t die of shock or think they’ve gone mad, do you think no one else is gonna notice you? No rumours? No gossip on social media? You can’t hide in a city like that. The government will come down on the doctors who declared you dead, come down on your family – and probably drag you off to Area 51 to cut you open and see how you tick. And then that’s all of us fucked, too.”

The woman looks down.

“I don’t want this!” Peter says again, and his voice is rising, verging on hysteria. “I don’t want to be three thousand years old! I don’t want to be in hiding for the rest of my life! I didn’t _ask_ for this!”

“None of us did, kid,” the first man says, “but we make do with what we got.”

Peter searches for a distraction. Something. Anything. “You said – you felt me die?”

“The dreams. It’s how we find each other. The first time you die – it activates you, I guess.”

“It’s much easier now than it used to be,” the woman adds. “No internet. No hospital records to hack into.”

“You did that?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Right. Yeah.” 

“Took them years to find me,” another man, this one with blond hair, says, walking in with food on a tray. “Imagine my shock when I woke up to find my guts back inside me and that one’s ugly mug in my head.”

The man with long hair cheerfully flips him off. 

“All right, kid, I don’t know what you like, but grilled cheese and tomato soup normally hits the spot. If not, Tony’s your Italian man, and Natasha can cook exactly two things.”

“Thank you. Um…” Peter looks around. “Sorry, I don’t know…”

“Oh! God, we’re stupid. I’m Steve. That’s Tony.” The man with the beard waves. “She’s Natasha, most of the time, and the one loitering at the back is Bucky.”

“Congratulations,” Tony says. “This is almost the first time we’ve all been in the same room for fifty years. Way to bring us together.”

“Do you, like, not get on?” Peter takes a bite of the sandwich. “Forever’s a long time to spend with people you don’t like.”

“And fifty years isn’t really that long at all,” Tony says.

“Well, that’s frightening.” 

“Yeah.” Tony watches him for a moment. “I can tell you’re still considering trying to make a break for it, so let me add some facts into your equation. You are forty miles outside of Paris right now. You don’t have a passport, nor have you ever had one. If you do manage to get back home, you will put yourself, your family and all of us in indescribable danger. If you stay…I can’t promise you’ll like the answers to your questions, but we have them nonetheless.”

“Stay…forever?”

“I’m sorry. Non-consensual immortality is a ball ache. There’s not even a vampire to blame for it.”

“But, like, what causes it? Is it a gene? A – a mutation? Is it, like, super recessive?”

“We don’t know what causes it.”

Peter frowns. “I thought you said you’d have answers.”

“And I said you might not like them.”

“Tony,” Natasha scolds. “Be nice.”

“I am, fundamentally, not a nice person. Or even a good one.”

“Well, make an effort. He’s one of us now.”

Peter swallows another bite of sandwich and starts on the soup. “Like, part of your non-consensual eternal cult?”

Tony barks out a laugh. “Yeah. Exactly that. We prefer the word family.”

“I’ve heard cults do.”

Another laugh.

“I like this one,” Natasha says.

* * *

Tony watches the kid sleep, watches a little frown crease the skin between his eyes, suggesting that maybe he’s not as at ease with this whole thing as he’d begun to pretend earlier.

And who would be? He’s just a kid, ripped away from his aunt and uncle, his only family – and that suggests his parents are out of the picture for whatever reason, which is a whole other can of worms – away from the life he thought he was going to have. Basically kidnapped.

Because, despite all his jokes, that’s exactly what Tony has done. Legally, not so much. But emotionally – he’s kidnapped a child. 

A child. A _baby_. Not even a blip compared to Tony’s long long life. He’s too young for this shit. So it’s normal for Tony to feel protective, right? Like it or not, this fetus is one of them now, and he’s going to need looking after.

Natasha’s hovering just outside the room, has been for a while, but she’s keeping back for now, fidgeting with her favourite knife. Still, snide comments are a language frequently and fluently spoken among the four of them, so it’s only a matter of time.

“You going to lurk all night?” she says archly.

“First few days are when the dreams are most vivid,” Tony replies. “You know that.” 

“It seems to be plain sailing so far.”

“Calm before the storm, probably.” Tony watches the kid take another breath. “He hasn’t processed this at all. I give it a week before we have a breakdown on our hands.”

“Remind me where you got your degree in psychology.”

“Three thousand years of this shit.” 

“Fair.” Natasha tosses the knife and catches the blade between two fingers. “Fuck, he’s so young. Specialist tech school, top of half his classes – and now look. His life is ruined. The only people who know how to handle this are long past tired and jaded.”

Something bubbles and swells in Tony’s chest; it feels like fondness, like caring, which is a strange feeling to have about a kid he’s known twenty-four hours at this point. “This has never been fair,” he says eventually. “No rhyme or reason to it. We used to say there must be a why, must be something the universe knew that we didn’t.” He scoffs. “The universe can go fuck itself.”

* * *

In fairness to the kid, he does make it five days. Maybe a week was generous.

It’s five days of Steve’s cooking (which Tony has missed, not that he’d ever admit it) and answering a wide variety of curious questions as best Tony can.

“What’s this?”

“First edition _Don Quixote_. Don’t drop it.”

A few hours later:

“Exactly how old are you?”

“Can’t remember. I round it to three thousand. Humans need to stop changing the calendars.”

“What about the others?”

“Steve and Bucky – about a thousand. Nat’s around three hundred.”

Silence, then the kid says, “I’m gonna be that old one day.”

“Yeah,” Tony says gently, and braces for the storm.

But no, Peter just bites his lip and carries on exploring the room. “What’s this?”

“Nokia 3000.”

“Wow, you guys are _old_.”

The next day:

“Have you aged at all?”

“No. Hair still grows, food still digests, but no ageing.”

Peter pulls a face. “So I’m gonna look sixteen forever?”

“Afraid so.”

“I’m gonna get carded for the rest of my life,” he groans, and that shocks Tony into laughter.

On day three:

“Are you the only ones like this?”

Natasha keeps her eyes trained on her plate.

“There’s one more,” Tony says carefully. “We don’t know where he is. He’s not, ah…”

“Not what?”

“Not very friendly,” Bucky supplies, and everyone breathes a silent sigh of relief. “Even less than Tony, if you can believe it.”

Tony flicks a piece of bread at him, Bucky yelps in protest, Peter laughs, and the conversation is forgotten.

Day four:

“What do you guys, like, _do_?”

“We help people. Some people think we’re a freelance paramilitary group, and we let them hold that impression. Natasha does the most. Keeps her human, she says. Sometimes she drags us in to help. If we’ve got this – whatever it is, may as well do some good with it, right?”

“So you have to hurt people.”

“Sometimes,” Tony says regretfully, “but only when it’s necessary.”

Peter doesn’t say anything else.

And on the fifth day: 

“Tony?”

“Yeah, kid?” He doesn’t look up from peering over Natasha’s shoulder as she tries to track down Ross, which is a mistake. If he had, he might have the kid twisting his fingers together, biting his lip.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Haven’t you been all week?” he says, turning with a grin that fades the instant he meets Peter’s gaze. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I want to go home,” Peter whispers. “Please.” So the feeling of it being a fun, if slightly odd, vacation has worn off and reality is setting in.

Natasha picks up her laptop and turns to leave, only stopping to pat the kid’s shoulder as she goes. Traitor. 

“I…” Tony pauses. “I’m sorry, kid.”

The ’no’ is silent, but Peter gets it. Of course he does.

“Tony,” he says, clearly trying so so hard to keep his voice steady. “I know I won’t get older, but I have – at least a few years before they realise. If I go back now, tell them the hospital got it wrong…”

“You know that’s not possible, kid.”

“They’re my family,” Peter says, increasingly desperate, “they’ve raised me since I was four – and I have friends, I have a life, I have school and I’m supposed to go to college–“ He breaks off, breathing hard.

“I know,” Tony says, “I know, it’s not fucking fair–“

“You don’t know!” Peter bursts out. “You don’t know! How can you have any idea what this is like? I didn’t get to say goodbye! Ben was asking me what I wanted from the store, and then I fucking died!”

Tony just stands there and lets him yell.

“And I woke up on the other side of the world and–“ Peter stops, and then his face twists and crumples.

He’s crying. The kid is crying. Panic stations.

“Pete–“

“Sorry, I–“ He brings his hand up to his mouth, as if to muffle his sobs.

Before he even realises what he’s doing, Tony crosses the room and pulls him into a hug. It’s instinct, long-buried but never lost, never forgotten. 

_Once a father, always a father._

_Shut up_ , he tells the memory of Natasha firmly, and lets Peter cry against him, clutch the front of his shirt like that’s any comfort.

He doesn’t know how long it is before Peter’s wrenching wails subside into broken, jerky sobs – quieter, but no less heartbreaking. At some point, his hand had found its way to Peter’s head, working his fingers through his hair. Just like he used to for–

_No_.

“I can’t go home,” Peter mumbles eventually, his breaths still hitching. It’s not a question anymore.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Tony says, quiet. “You don’t know how much I wish this hadn’t fucking happened to you.”

“Shit sucks.”

“Shit does suck.” Tony rests his chin on top of Peter’s head. To his surprise, the kid doesn’t pull away; no, he almost leans into the touch. “I know you’re scared, okay? I know this is horrible. But we’re all gonna look after you. Me, Nat, Steve, Bucky – we got you. We’re gonna keep you safe.”

“From that Ross guy?”

Tony pauses. “Was it Natasha or Bucky?”

“I asked why they were so hung up on keeping a low profile, and…” Peter shrugs.

“Yeah. From him, from anything else. You’re–“ Tony bites down the word _family_. Too soon, maybe. “We’re gonna protect you.”

Peter softly butts his head into Tony’s shoulder. “Thanks for letting me cry on you.”

“I’m three thousand years old. I’ve had worse things on my shirt.”

“Tony, _ew_.”

* * *

After that, Peter slots into their life like he was always meant to be there.

_He’s not,_ Tony reminds himself fiercely. If there was any justice in the world, he wouldn’t ever have met Peter Parker,

But there isn’t, and he’s here, so Tony’s going to do everything he can for the kid. Because he’s already lost one set of parents, and now another. He needs something, and Tony knows, without having to decide, that he’s going to be that something.

They stay in the Paris house, longer than Tony feels comfortable with, but they’re reluctant to move until they find out if Ross has done anything with the video. 

Days turn into weeks, and then nearly two months, and Natasha somehow manages to uncover nothing.

“How good is this guy?” Steve asks when she’s rubbing her dry eyes after another fruitless day. 

“Ex-CIA,” she says wearily. 

“Who’s better than you?”

“Apparently.”

Peter watches from the corner of the room, not even pretending to be reading the book in his hands anymore.

“He’s completely disappeared,” Bucky says. “We might just have to wait for him to make a move.”

Tony shakes his head. “We can’t afford that.”

“I’ve tried to contact him the same way he got in touch with me, but…” Natasha sighs. “Nothing. Like he’s dropped off the face of the earth.”

_“A chonách san ort,”_ Steve mutters. 

Natasha flips him off. “This affects all of us, _hijo de puta._ ” 

“I know.” Steve sighs, sharing a worried glance with Tony. “I’ll start dinner.”

“ _Danke_ ,” Bucky says, already turning back to his laptop.

“ _Bitte schön_.” Steve takes his hand and kisses his knuckles as he leaves.

“How many languages do you guys speak?” Peter asks. 

Tony huffs in amusement, grateful for the distraction. “Not as many as I’ve forgotten, probably.”

Peter raises his eyebrows before nodding as if agreeing that’s fair enough. “This is all gonna be okay, right?”

“‘Course it will,” Tony says. “We’ve been in worse shit.” Not much, but the kid doesn’t need to know that.

* * *

Another day passes, and another. Peter’s getting antsy. He can tell Tony is too, but for different reasons. They still haven’t found the guy they’re looking for – Ross, he thinks, who apparently has video proof of their immortality.

As big and interesting as the house is, he’s starting to get cabin fever. He’s read every book that’s in English. He’s crushed Snake on the stupid old Nokia. He’s identified almost every bird that’s landed in the little garden outside. He’s wearing Tony’s spare clothes while his are in the wash. If forever is going to be this boring, he wants it even less than he did to start with.

“How’s your driving?”

“Hm?” Peter looks up to see Tony, car keys in hand.

“You’re sixteen, right? That’s the age in America last I checked, which was, admittedly, a couple decades ago.” He frowns. “Might be eighteen here. Shit.”

“I mean – Ben took me out a few times. I only have my learners permit, though.”

“Okay, we’ll swap out when we get closer to town.”

“What?”

“You wanna get out of here. I wanna get out of here. Steve’s sick of cooking. Ergo, we are going to get takeout.”

Peter perks up. He can’t help it. “Pizza?”

“If you want. I know a couple places.”

“I am literally dying for some greasy cheese.”

“You’re not dying, I promise.” 

The laugh is startled out of Peter before he can stop it.

“Yes, unfortunately we have plenty of terrible jokes like that in our repertoire. So.” Tony jangles the keys. “Scenic drive with pizza at the end?”

“Awesome,” Peter says,

_“Va bene.”_

“What was that?”

“Italian.”

“I don’t Italian.”

“You will soon,” Tony says with a smirk, and tosses the keys at him. _“Andiamo.”_

* * *

Peter is a terrible driver.

If it were possible for Tony to die, multiple heart attacks would have carried him off long before any accident that might have occurred. It’s terrifying to be terrified for the first time in a long time.

“Okay, stop – stop!” he yelps, and wheezes when Peter slams the brakes and his seatbelt tightens around his chest. “Jesus Christ, we have some work to do, kid.”

“Out of practice?” Peter tries.

“Yeah, that’s a term for it,” he says, and fondness sneaks into the words without permission. “Come on, swapsies. Getting pulled over or caught on traffic cameras is the last thing we need right now.”

“Fine,” Peter says. “In my defence, I’ve also never driven shift before.”

“Thank you for telling me that after fifteen minutes of hell.”

“You’re very welcome.”

_“Mierdita,”_ Tony mutters.

“Okay, that one I got.”

* * *

He realises something’s wrong the instant they pull up outside the house. It’s quiet. Lights out. One window shattered. Tony opens the glove box, pulls out a gun, checks the chamber and safety, all in the same breath.

“What’s happened?” Peter whispers, his throat closing over. “What–?”

“I don’t know.” Tony’s voice is steady, and that’s enough to slow Peter’s panicked thoughts, just a little. “Stay close to me. Do _not_ leave my sight.”

They stalk towards the house, pizza forgotten in the car. It’s quiet, Peter thinks, too quiet. Tony slips through the door, gesturing for Peter to keep close, and the smell hits him all at once: thick, metallic.

Natasha is slumped in an armchair – she looks asleep, except for the blood and the huge hole blown through her stomach. 

“Nat,” Tony says roughly, not lowering his gun. “Natasha.” 

Nothing.

“Romanoff!” He leans over her chair, inches from her slack face. “I swear to every god I don’t believe in, if you don’t wake up–“

She gasps back to life, wheezing in a language that sounds like Russian, and Tony presses their foreheads together with a barely-there sigh.

“Welcome back to the shitty game,” he murmurs. 

“Still with you,” she says on a breath, “still with you.”

“Stay here with the kid.”

“Where’m I gonna go?” she croaks, but Tony’s already halfway out of the door. A wry grin is turned on Peter. “It’s not always this bad, I promise.”

Peter nods, then turns around and vomits into the closest receptacle – in this case, a black and orange vase.

“Oh, we’re gonna have fun finding that in ten years,” she says with a groan. Her skin is starting to knit back together, but so are her organs, and he can see far more than he’d like. “Poor Grecian urn, though.”

It takes another minute, but Natasha manages to drag herself back to her feet. Blood coats her entire front, splattered up around her face and neck. 

“Look at it this way: you know you can survive a grenade being thrown in your lap.”

“I’m gonna throw up again.”

“That’s fair.”

Peter’s just finished retching up what’s left in his stomach when Tony strides back in, face tight. “Steve and Bucky are gone.”

“Gone,” Natasha repeats.

“I found gas canisters.” He helps Peter straighten up, a reassuring hand on the back of his neck. “Grab anything important. We can’t come back here. They found us.”

Peter’s stomach drops.

“Ross?” Natasha demands.

“I don’t know. Car’s leaving in five minutes.”

“I’ll get Steve’s books,” she says, and stumbles out of the room, nothing close to her usual grace. 

“But they’re gone, right?” Peter says.

“Yes,” Tony says darkly, “but they know where this is, which means they might come back, and I’m really not a fan of the idea of them finding out about you.”

“Who are they?”

Tony presses his lips together. “I don’t know.”

* * *

They pile back into the shitty car, Natasha’s arms full of books and laptops. She looks completely healed, but still pulls the pizza boxes towards her and lifts a slice out, offers the box to Peter.

He takes it. It tastes like cardboard. 

* * *

Peter falls asleep after about four hours of driving. Tony keeps glancing over his shoulder to check on him; the frown-crease is back between his eyes.

He drives, knuckles white as he grips the wheel. Natasha is silent, staring straight ahead. She hasn’t changed out of her destroyed, bloody clothes.

“Pamplona?” she says when they cross the Spanish border.

“Yeah.”

“How long are we staying?”

“As long as it takes you to find them.”

“I’ll get right on it.” Natasha twists her lips. “He’s made a move, shown his hand, exposed himself. We’ll get them back, Tony.”

“We counterattack,” Tony says, stealing another glance at Peter. “We don’t give him another inch. He’s clearly working with others now. We take no more chances.”

“Of course, but we have to be careful about it.”

“They don’t get the kid. That’s not an option.”

Natasha doesn’t answer.

* * *

“Tell me I’m a genius.”

“No.” Tony looks up from where he’s scouring through what looks like CCTV footage. ‘What have you done?”

“Found Ross’ offshore accounts, and from there, I found his address. Now tell me I’m a genius.”

“You’re frightening, that’s what you are.” 

Peter gets up and leans closer to see the laptop she’s holding out. “Well, that’s a – a lot of money. All from the same account, right?”

Tony purses his lips. “Transferred separately so it wouldn’t raise any flags. Wonder what Copley has that people would pay millions for?”

“What, indeed?” Natasha murmurs.

“And who’s the generous bankroller?”

“Norman Osborn.”

“Hey, I know that guy,” Peter says suddenly. “Norman Osborn? He runs this massive biotech company, Oscorp. The main building is right in Manhattan.”

“Would they be there in Manhattan? Steve and Bucky?”

“He always says that’s where his most advanced labs are.”

Tony nods, deep in thought. “I want to get hold of Ross first. He might be able to confirm it. If we go storming in and get it wrong, they could go deep underground. We might not find them for years.”

Natasha taps her laptop screen. “How convenient. He lives in Yonkers. Ten miles from the New York safehouse, and within driving distance of Manhattan.”

“Is that convenient or creepy?” Peter says. 

“Both.”

“Biotechnology,” Tony says under his breath. “What would a man like him want with people like us?”

“Specimens,” Natasha says, her jaw tight.

“Specimens?” Peter repeats. “God – what the fuck?”

“Nat, start packing,” Tony says, and grabs the closest backpack. “Kid, I’m sorry, but you’re staying here where it’s safe.” He closes his laptop and slides it in.

“But–”

“This is not a ‘but’ kind of situation.”

“I know where the building is.”

Tony doesn’t look up from packing his bag. “Great, so does Google.”

_“Ná bí dúr,”_ Natasha murmurs. “If we leave him here alone, they might come for him. He’s safer with us.”

Agonised indecision flashes across Tony’s face.

“We shouldn’t split up. Not after this.”

“He might be in more danger with us. We don’t even know if they’re there – we’re gonna have to find Ross first. This could take days.”

“Then he comes,” she says with finality, and Tony seems to bristle, almost protective, before relaxing.

“All right,” he says, “okay. You stay close to us, behind me at all times. Do what I say without question. Keep an eye out. And here.” He holds out a gun.

Peter recoils, just for a second. He remembers – barely, like chasing a smell – the hooded man waving a gun at Ben, shouting something that was lost as blood roared in his ears.

“I want you to be safe,” Tony says softly. “You know how to shoot one?”

Peter nods. Ben had taken him to a shooting range on his fifteenth birthday. None of the attendants had so much as batted an eye. God bless America.

“Good.”

“I…this could kill people.”

“Yeah.”

“And they’re not like us. They’ll – die.”

“Yeah, they will.”

“I can’t do that.” Peter shakes his head and takes a step back. “I mean, I won’t do that. I’m not murdering people.”

“We’d do it for you,” Natasha says with a slight frown. “No question.”

“Nat,” Tony says warningly. “Peter, listen, if what we think is happening – if we’re right, what’s going to happen will be worse than death. They’ll hunt us down, capture us, treat us like science experiments. I don’t want that happening to you. Having that on my conscience will outweigh any number of people I kill. I’ve already failed Steve and Bucky, and I won’t let that happen to you. Do you understand?”

Tony using his full name jolts Peter a little, but he still doesn’t take the gun. “I…I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says gently, “I’m really sorry, but you might have to. Only if you’re threatened, okay? These guys took out Steve and Bucky, and they’re keeping them contained. They’re legit. Clearly fucking dangerous. You can’t afford to let your guard down, even for a minute. You get hit and have to heal – then you’re being rescued too.”

“I…” Peter looks down. “I understand.”

“Good boy.” Tony reaches out and ruffles his hair, leaving his hand there for a moment, before turning back to his bag. “Get packing.”

* * *

Tony can tell being back on American soil is excruciating for the kid. It must be even worse being in his home state, only a few miles away from his family. But he doesn’t run. He stays.

Natasha leads them to Agent Ross’s apartment, silent as ever they slip up the staircase. She nods to a door, and Tony quickly picks the lock.

It’s open-plan, which means they spot Ross within five seconds – just as he spots them – and each level a gun at his head.

“What the hell?” Ross yells, backing against his kitchen counter.

There’s a wall behind him, one that wouldn’t look out of place in a police drama, a huge map bordered with photos and newspaper clippings and portraits, pieces of string making lines and drawing connections. Tony recognises a painting of himself he had done in Venice in the 1400s, a grainy photo of Natasha in her 1918 nurse’s uniform. This guy knew exactly who they were before he even met them.

“You sold us out!” Tony snaps. “You don’t get to be annoyed about this.”

“Osborn, right?” Natasha says, circling him, prowling. “He has the other two.”

“Why do you have a kid with you?”

“Nuh-uh.” Tony waggles his gun. “We’re asking the questions.”

Ross sighs. “ _Yes_ , it was Osborn. If it helps, he got in contact with me.”

“It doesn’t,” Tony says, “it really, really doesn’t. Your creeper wall over there doesn’t seem to support that, either.”

“He’d heard I was doing…investigations. He was the only one who took me seriously.”

“So he paid you for everything you’d found on us?” Natasha says. “How does it feel to be an accessory to human trafficking?”

“I didn’t know what he wanted with you until I handed over the video, and by then, it was too late.”

“Sure,” Tony says. “So where are the others? They at Osborn’s building in Manhattan? Somewhere else?”

“Yes – yes, he took them to his labs there – Jesus Christ, can you put the guns down?”

“No. What else do you know?”

“There’s a doctor working for him, just as interested in this stuff, but for different reasons. And Osborn has his own private security force – more like an army. The head guy is called Rumlow. He’s fucking sadistic. And so’s the doctor – Doctor Octavius. They’re all insane.”

“Great. That’s great. _Awesome_.”

“For what it’s worth,” Ross says, “all I wanted was to observe. To – understand. To account for all the good you’ve done. I could only accurately go back about a hundred and fifty years, but – look at this.” He gestures to the wall. “You, evacuating injured soldiers from the Somme. Those young men were able to go home, go back to their families, rather than dying a painful death alone.”

Tony shakes his head. “If we were put on this earth to do good, we would’ve stopped the war.” 

“Just a few lives, right?” Ross says. “You don’t think it matters? You saved this couple, right? Their grandchild went on to help develop treatment for diabetes. This man you saved as a child ended up saving hundreds of people from the Khmer Rouge.” He nods towards Natasha. “All those hundreds of slaves she freed over the centuries – all their descendants that exist today because of her. Your friends were there at the fall of the Berlin Wall, standing between the crowd and two soldiers who looked ready to shoot, making sure the people could tear it down. Interfering with the paras in Northern Ireland, helping people escape Kosovo, Rwanda, Germany, Russia – all those people and their children and their children, what they’ve gone on to do – the lives you have saved, the good you have done – it becomes exponential. And that’s only since the invention of cameras.” Ross looks at them, his smile slightly awed. 

“You don’t see the long-term results,” Peter says quietly, stepping out from behind Tony. “You just see one person saved – you don’t see how much good it does. Like saving one person isn’t good enough on its own.”

“No, we couldn’t see that,” Tony says, “but he could. And he sold us out anyway. What if he’d gotten all of us in one go, huh? No amount of good deeds is getting us out of there.”

“I didn’t realise what Osborn wanted until it was too late. But I’m telling you – your friends are in his Manhattan building. Here – I still have a couple of access cards.” He moves towards the counter and slides a plastic card across. “I know I’m the last person to judge, but – kid. How’d you get dragged into this?”

“Non-consensual immortality,” Peter says, and Ross laughs.

Tony lowers his gun, gesturing for Peter to follow him to the corner of the room. “Kid. Quick word. Are we trusting this guy?”

“I think so.”

“Actually, you trusted us way too quickly for your own good. Your opinion doesn’t count.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have?”

He’s right. “Fine. Okay. Stay here with Ross. We’ll be a few hours.”

“What?” Peter blurts. 

“This is going to be messy,” Tony says, “and Steve and Bucky are going to be really pissed off on each other’s behalf, which is when they get especially violent. If you don’t think you can handle it, I won’t make you.”

“But – like you said, they’d do it for me.”

“They’ve been doing it for centuries. We all have. We kill, because we have to. You’re so new to this. If you think you can trust this guy, stay here. If not, head back to the house.”

“I feel bad doing nothing,” Peter protests.

“And I will feel worse if I bring you there and you get tortured in the name of bullshit science. I need to–“ Tony sighs. “I need you to be safe.”

“Tell me how I’m safer with him than you?”

“Then head back to the safehouse.”

Peter presses his lips together, jaw clenching as if he’s going to argue, but then looks down, nodding begrudgingly. A weight lifts from Tony’s shoulders.

“You’ll need this,” Ross interrupts. “Access card for the building. It’ll get you in, but as soon as they realise you’re not me, they’ll shoot first, ask questions later.”

“Not if we shoot _them_ first,” Natasha mutters, and takes the card before stalking out of the apartment.

* * *

The card reader blips green and the staff door opens without protest. Tony is half-surprised that Ross hasn’t betrayed them again, but it’s still early in the day.

“Cameras ahead,” Natasha murmurs. “They’ll notice us soon–“

They round the corner and skid to a halt, almost tripping over each other, because there’s a whole squadron of security guards facing them. Waiting. They were ready.

“Welcome to Oscorp,” the obvious leader says. “I’m Rumlow. How can I help?”

Tony’s preparing a smart retort when Natasha whirls around, whips out her gun and shoots him in the stomach.

He sinks to his knees, then falls forward, his own gun slipping free of his fingers.

_Natasha shot him Natasha Natasha did this Natasha–_

Because it was Natasha who put them in touch with Ross. Natasha who suggested they take the job. Natasha who was left behind when Steve and Bucky were taken. Natasha who insisted Peter come with them to New York.

_Peter. No no no._

“Just relax,” Natasha murmurs. 

“Fuck you,” Tony wheezes. The wound is already closing, but every breath makes it sear with new agony as it presses into the carpet. “Dammit, Nat, what the – what are you doing?”

“Osborn’s right,” Natasha says. “We have a gift. Biological regeneration. Never growing old. We should at least find out what we have, and maybe we can share it with others.”

“It’s a goddamn curse.”

“Tell that to all the people who would’ve liked a little more time. You wanna help as many people as possible? This is how.” She zip-ties Tony’s feet as well, then steps around him to look at Rumlow. “There’s another one.”

“Five of you?”

“Very new. He’s just a kid. Looks sweet, but don’t let that fool you.”

“No,” Tony groans, trying his best to kneel up, but his wound makes him clench and he ends up flopping around like a beached whale. “No, don’t–“

“Quiet,” Rumlow says. “Where is he?”

“Nat,” Tony says, barely a gasp. Whatever this is, whatever they’re going to do, he doesn’t want Peter anywhere near it. “Please.”

“In hiding,” she says. “He’s too inexperienced to come on this mission. We made him stay behind.”

Tony sags, his forehead hitting the carpet. Unseen, a tear trickles down his cheek, then another. Relief – but it could seem different to someone who doesn’t know him – at the not-quite lie. Vague enough to keep Peter safe from this.

“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll find him soon enough,” Rumlow says, and two soldiers in black appear behind Natasha out of nowhere. Tony can barely voice a warning before she’s wrestled to the ground next to him, arms yanked behind her back.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” she hisses.

“Screw you,” Tony says wearily. “You double-triple agent. Screw you.”

She just smirks, eyes dancing over his face, over the tear tracks on his cheeks. “I knew you still had a heart in there somewhere.”

“Oh, says you.”

_Peter better stay safe,_ is Tony’s last coherent thought before something jabs him in the neck and the world spins into a kaleidoscope.

* * *

He wakes up in a bed.

No – strapped down, thin mattress, white walls and metal all around. He’s in a fucking lab. _The_ lab.

“Tony? Tony.”

“Don’t you even talk to me,” he groans, turning his head away from her voice, and finds Steve and Bucky, similarly restrained, staring at him with concern. “Hey,” Tony says breathlessly, “you guys okay? What happened?”

“Dandy,” Steve says, but he looks pale, drained. “We got gassed and thrown in a van, then taken on a plane–“

“The plane had a TV.”

“The plane did have a TV. Then we were dragged in here and strapped down on these beds. Quite a journey. Bucky declared his undying love for me. It was all very dramatic.”

“Bucky declares his undying love for you upwards of five times a day. It’s one of the principle reasons I can‘t stand to be around you two.”

Steve laughs.

“What about…?” Bucky trails off.

“If he’s smart, he went straight back upstate and stayed there,” Tony says, “although _someone_ made sure they know about him.” Shit, Peter could be anywhere. Could be captured, could be in hiding, could’ve run straight back to his family. “He’ll be okay as long as he lies low.”

“The fifth member of your team?” a new voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll have the full set soon enough.”

“Hello, Doctor,” Bucky says, each syllable laced with venom.

“Ah, of course.” A man in a lab coat moves into Tony’s line of sight, eyeing them all with a frightening eagerness. “We haven’t met. My name is Doctor Octavius, and you – you are something wonderful. How many cures could you provide, I wonder? And for all manner of things. Chronic illnesses, hereditary conditions. Immortality is just the tip of the iceberg with you – not, of course, that some people wouldn’t be willing to pay for that. Now.” He moves closer to Tony. “Would you mind if I took some samples from your lungs?”

* * *

Peter does his best to be patient, but by the time morning comes, after a fitful night’s sleep, he knows something is wrong.

A few hours, Tony had said. Well, it’s been a few hours. At least eighteen. 

It’s a half hour drive into Manhattan on a good day, down a busy parkway. He doesn’t have his license if he gets stopped, and he’s almost certain the car outside doesn’t match the plates on it. The biggest road he’s ever driven on was Queens Boulevard, for about thirty seconds.

But he needs these people. It’s not just the primal longing of the dreams; it’s the fact that they’re the only ones on the whole planet like him. The only ones who know what he’s going through.

And Tony, despite his sarcasm and deflection, cares so deeply. Loves all of them with everything in him. Loves Steve and Bucky enough to charge straight into hell to save them. Loves Peter enough to make him stay behind.

But it’s been eighteen hours and Peter keeps brushing his fingers against the second key card that Ross had slipped into his pocket as they’d left, a knowing look on his face. He keeps fiddling with the car keys, keeps watching out of the window for any sign of their return. Nothing.

If he goes, he might have to hurt people, kill people. He might have to see them do it, too, but he can’t leave them there, not when it’s within his power to do something about it. He can almost hear Ben’s voice, telling him that if there’s a way to stop bad things happening, he should always try his best to find it. 

Peter waits for another hour, ears pricked for the sound of a car pulling up outside, and when he’s still alone, he picks up the car keys, the gun and the access card, and leaves.

* * *

They barely let Tony doze for a couple of hours before they wheel his gurney out of the main lab and into a side room. He’s sure whatever they have planned is going to be wonderfully fun and not at all painful, so when all the doctors leave the room and shut the door behind them, he’s left twitching, half with pain from his still-healing wounds, half with frenzied anticipation at what’s next.

But Peter’s okay. He’s safe. He’s far away from this shit.

Movement, outside the door. Scuffling. The door shaking in its frame.

“Can you hurry up?” Tony calls. “Don’t have all goddamn day in here. Get on with the torture, please.”

The door flies open, more violently than he’d expected, and there’s a familiar shape in the doorway.

_Absolutely not._ “What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” Tony yells. He’s not just in shock, it’s more than that – he’s angry. Pissed off. Fuming, because Peter is here and he’s in danger.

“Uhh, saving your butt, maybe?” Peter says as he starts unbuckling him.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Tony rails, struggling against his restraints. “All it takes is one tranquilliser dart, one death that takes a bit too long to heal from, and you’re strapped down on these goddamn beds like the rest of us.” His upper body is free, so he sits up with a groan and helps Peter with the rest of the straps. “You’re grounded until the next fucking century, and that’s not a threat, that’s a promise that I can and will carry out – _oof_.”

Something hits his tender chest and he looks down to see a Peter Parker wrapped around him like a koala.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” the kid mumbles, and something in Tony just – breaks.

He doesn’t have the monopoly on worry, or terrified rage. Through some twist of fate, some unlikely draw, they’re family now. Peter is his family.

“I’m okay,” he promises, “just real fucking pissed off.”

“I’m not apologising,” Peter says, stubborn as all get-out, and oh God, what’s that warmth in Tony’s chest? And why does it feel like pride?

“Not at you,” he says, and ruffles the kid’s hair for good measure. “At that double-crossing, backstabbing triple imposter.” 

“Natasha?”

“Unfortunately.”

“She must have a reason.”

“And I’m dying to find out what it is. They’re in the main lab, come on.” An alarm starts blaring. “It’s gonna be a fight to get out of here. We’re gonna have to hurt people.”

“They hurt you,” Peter says, his jaw set.

Tony thinks he might love this kid.

* * *

The others are still in the main lab, and Tony doesn’t even wait until Natasha’s off the bed and on her feet before he punches her solidly in the stomach. She doubles over, air leaving her lungs with a whoosh. 

“That’s not even half of what you deserve,” he hisses in her ear. “You are – mindblowingly duplicitous.”

“Probably fair,” she agrees breathlessly. “My bad.”

“My bad? Are you serious–?”

“Stop wasting time,” Bucky says. “We need to get out of here.”

“If there’d been even one scratch on the kid,” Tony says, “there would have been no pit on this earth deep enough for you to hide from me.”

“I got it, Mama Bear,” she grumbles. “Osborn fucked me over. There was obviously a daring rescue in my plan.”

“Fucking – quadruple imposter.”

“That’s me.”

“Ten in the corridor!” Steve calls, already halfway out the door. 

“Hate to miss the fun,” Natasha says, and slips after him.

* * *

Peter has never been in a fight before in his life, and he’s starting to wonder how obvious it is.

The other four are moving like a well-oiled machine, steadily carving a path down towards the ground floor and freedom, but Peter, he’s just trying not to kill anyone.

A bullet thuds into his back, piercing a lung, and Peter falls forward with a gasp. _Ow_. It’s healing already, his body pushing out the cold metal, but he stays on all fours for a moment, catching his breath.

“There’s another one!” someone yells.

“They’re protecting it,” another one says. “Get the kid, and they’ll surrender.”

“Like hell,” Tony snarls, and by the time Peter’s back on his feet, there are three soldiers dead on the floor.

“Violent,” Natasha says.

“Yeah, well,” Tony says, “my definition of necessary has been very flexible lately.”

* * *

They’ve made it two floors down, and the guards just keep coming. Ross had meant what he said about the private army; they’re fighting with military precision.

Suddenly, Peter turns and Tony isn’t there anymore. The guards have separated them, slid between them and pulled them all apart. 

A bullet blows through Peter’s knee, making him stumble, but before he can find his feet there’s an arm around his throat and a gun to his head.

“That’s enough!” Osborn yells in his ear. 

The others don’t stop fighting, tearing through the soldiers. Steve and Natasha are a deadly partnership, speed and strength combined, and Tony – is in a terrifying league of his own.

“I said that’s enough!” Osborn roars, and presses the gun to the back of Peter’s shoulder instead.

“No–“

He feels the shot shatter his collarbone and cries out, and it’s then that Tony freezes, spins to see where the sound came from. His face contorts in terror, then fury.

“Let the kid go,” Bucky says, appearing from nowhere with a rifle pointed at Osborn’s. “Trust me when I say I’m real fucking pissed off, and that’s the only way you’ll come close to surviving this.”

Osborn’s response is to push his gun under Peter’s chin. Natasha sighs, looking almost offended.

“None of you move,” Osborn snarls, and jams the gun even harder into Peter’s jaw.

“Look, man, I don’t know if you remember, but killing me isn’t gonna do a whole lot–“

“Shut up.” Osborn yanks his head back, breaking his eye contact with Tony. “I can kill you, and the good thing is, I can do it over and over again, and I can make it hurt each and every time, so unless your friends there put down their weapons and come quietly, you will be in a lot of pain for a very long time.”

“We’re not goddamn lab rats,” Steve says.

The hole in Peter’s knee is almost closed, his collarbone slowly piecing itself back together. Osborn has a point; it hurts like hell.

“That’s exactly what you are. You don’t get a say in this. You are my find. My product. My data. You are never leaving this building again. You will be in the lab, or in a deep storage vault for the rest of your lives. I will carve slices off you for _years_ to get what I want. You’re mine–“

Peter bends his knees and kicks, pushes back, sends them both stumbling backwards towards the window, and then–

Shattering glass. Wind rushing. Osborn screaming in his ear.

And nothing.

* * *

Tony remembers when death used to be meaningless – he can’t, in fact, remember a time it wasn’t. Not before this.

But watching Peter kick back against Osborn, watching them both break through the glass and topple from the window – he can’t remember the last time he felt fear so strong, so all-consuming.

The kid’s going to be fine, but if Tony never sees him die again, it’ll be too soon.

They’re frozen for barely a heartbeat. Glass shards are still hitting the carpeted floor when Steve starts moving.

“Get to him!” he shouts. “Get to him before someone else sees him wake up! Buck, with me!”

Natasha is a step behind Tony as he bolts down the stairs, heart pounding. They burst out into the street, and – there. A crumpled car. Two broken bodies.

It’s grotesque. Peter seems bent in every way he shouldn’t be, every bone facing the wrong direction. Even as Tony watches, his knee slots back in place with a crunch.

And Norman is definitely gone. No saving him. Not that Tony would try. He wrenches the warped door open, nearly pulling it off its hinges, and reaches for Peter.

“I’ll get us a car,” Natasha says breathlessly. “Hurry the fuck up.”

“Pete,” Tony says, frantic, and clasps his bloodied face in his hands. People are going to start looking. The guards are going to know something’s up. If Rumlow comes– “Kid, wake up. We need to go, buddy. You did it. You saved us. Now it’s time to split.”

To his utter relief, Peter groans, eyelids fluttering. His elbow clicks back into its socket. “What the fuck…”

“You’re telling me.”

“‘M I…in a car?”

“Yes, actually. I think it’s his. Nice extra ‘fuck you’.”

Peter starts to sit up, and must notice the remains of the man underneath him, because he half turns.

“Don’t look,” Tony says sharply, and pulls him out of the wreckage. “You did what you had to. Let’s go.”

“God, this hurts…” 

Steve and Bucky sprint out of the building just as Natasha skids to a halt in a black SUV. Tony pulls Peter’s arm around his waist and starts towards the car, holding him up when one leg gives way and he stumbles.

_“Fai attenzione, bambino.”_

_“No hablo italiano,”_ Peter grumbles, and stops halfway to the car, stares out eastwards, over the river. Towards Queens.

“Kid–“

“Our place is in Forest Hills,” Peter says quietly. A wince as another finger rights itself. “Little apartment, seventh floor. The elevator never worked. May was the worst cook ever, but she never stopped trying new recipes. Ben always had takeout when he got back from work, ‘cause he just knew she’d burn something. Whenever the Ramones came on the radio, he’d grab whichever one of us was closest and dance around the kitchen.” He sniffs, then groans as his nose slots back into place.

Tony is struck with the horrifying realisation that Peter might run, right this minute, run all the way back to Queens covered in blood but very much alive, and is even more horrified at the fact that he wouldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t want to. Wouldn’t even try.

But Peter turns away with a heavy sigh and resumes his limp back to the car. Tony helps him in the back seat, slides in beside him.

“I had a daughter,” he says, before he even realises the words are coming out. Peter snaps his head around, eyes wide. Natasha guns the engine. “Perfect mix of me and my wife. Whip-smart. Brave. Strong.”

“Oh,” Peter breathes. “What were their names?”

“Uh, it was a different language – different world – but I guess the closest thing today would be Virginia. That was my wife. And Morgana. Morgan, maybe. When I died – the first time – I just got up and walked right back home. Doctors were kind of shit back then. It was easy to laugh it off as a mistake.” Tony purses his lips. “And then…they kept getting older and I didn’t. I stayed, until they were both gone. Stayed too long, maybe. Couldn’t…accept what was happening to me. Couldn’t let go. There was no one to dream of yet, no one to explain what the hell was happening.”

Peter lays his head on Tony’s shoulder with a heavy sigh, and Tony leans into the touch, almost unconsciously.

Something explodes behind them. Not huge, but large enough that Tony can see flames out of his window.

“What was that?” Peter says. 

“Blew the labs,” Bucky says grimly. “Every sample they took from us, every piece of data, every goddamn computer – not before we wiped the entire company intranet. Every trace of us should be gone.”

“Except the doctor,” Steve says. “Couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“We will,” Natasha murmurs, “and he’ll know when it happens.”

* * *

They drive for hours, speeding north as the sun sets and darkness falls. Peter dozes most of the time, resting his head on Tony’s shoulder as the man hums an unrecognisable tune that sometimes becomes AC/DC.

He’d been so close. A run across the bridge. A cab. A subway. He could’ve gone home, could’ve gone back to May and Ben. He misses them with an excruciating longing, and they must miss him too.

But they also think he’s dead. Peter wonders which is worse.

He hadn’t run, even though he could tell by the expression on Tony’s face that he had no intention of stopping him. He’d stayed. Telling Tony about them had felt like saying goodbye. Because he’s seen now what people will do for immortality, for healing. The best way to keep them safe is to stay away.

“Anyone got any cash?” Natasha says. “Dollars cash. See if anyone left their wallet in here.”

“Got a twenty,” Bucky says.

“And a fifty,” Steve adds.

“That’ll do it,” she agrees, and turns off the freeway. Peter cracks open one eye to see the familiar golden arches. “Any no-nos for you, kid?”

“Fuck the fish burger,” he mumbles.

“You got it.”

Bucky gets out to help, and Steve watches them warily through the window, never taking his eyes off Natasha.

Peter’s almost nodded off again by the time they get back, and wakes up to Natasha pushing a double cheeseburger, a chicken wrap, twenty nuggets, two fries and a large Coke onto his lap.

“The calories help,” she says quietly, and offers everyone else their food. Tony stares at her until she relinquishes a hot drink, coffee by the smell, making him sigh in contentment. “Food first.”

“Buzzkill,” Tony mutters, but puts the cup in the side door and piles into his own food.

It’s so…familial, so domestic. Stopping for burgers in the middle of the night. At least one of them addicted to coffee. The way Tony moves to make sure Peter can keep leaning on him.

“You all right, kid?” he murmurs.

“I’m good,” Peter says. He’s with family.

* * *

They drive through the night, until the cold light of morning breaks over Lake Michigan. Natasha pulls over on an empty road.

“Get everything out,” she says. “Still an hour’s walk to the safehouse.”

Steve finds a tote bag in the trunk and they stuff their trash in there, before pushing the SUV off the road into the bushes.

“Think I bled in there,” Peter says blandly.

Bucky shakes his head. “Nah, I wiped everything down. You’re good.”

“Ready for a hike?” Tony says, and Peter groans.

* * *

They traipse their way to the little cabin on the shore of Pine Creek Bay, the wind whipping their faces. Peter folds his arms, head down, and huddles into his jacket.

“Never been out here before?” Tony says.

“Never even left New York.”

“Until I kidnapped you.”

“Yeah. Never been this far west, then.” He moves a little closer to Tony as they walk, their shoulders brushing together.

When they finally reach the house, Steve pulls the door open and a cloud of dust erupts, making him sneeze.

“Fuck’s sake,” Natasha mutters. “Who used this last?”

“Might’ve been us,” Bucky says, abashed. “Sorry.” 

“Boys. _Gabh suas ort féin_ ,” she says under her breath. “Fuck me, it’s freezing. Did you leave coal, at least?”

“Should be wood in the store.” Tony steps forward, expecting Peter to follow, but turns to find him staring at the gently-swirling dust with trepidation. “What? What is it?”

The kid sniffs, tenses, wrinkles his nose – and looks at Tony. “Holy shit.”

“What?”

“I think it cured my asthma.”

* * *

Much to Peter’s delight, there’s a pizza place that delivers, so they light the fire and start cleaning around the place while they wait. Steve finds his old copy of _The Canterbury Tales_ under a couch cushion and spends the next five minutes hugging it.

“Eighteenth century edition,” Tony tells the kid, who’s looking concerned. “He’ll be fine in a minute.”

They eat, huddled together by the fire, passing around garlic bread and dipping sauces. It’s warm and comfortable, until Steve and Bucky share a glance, and Natasha looks down like she knows what’s coming.

“We need to talk about it,” Steve says. “You need to tell us everything. From the start.”

“Yeah,” she says quietly, closing the lid of her pizza box. “Uh, the start – two months ago, Ross approached me with that Sudan job. This was a week before Marrakesh. I spent some of the time trying to round you guys up, and the rest doing a background check. It flagged up Osborn – money being paid, weird encrypted communications – so I confronted him about it. He told me everything right away, said he was going to try and find a way to warn us if Osborn hadn’t threatened him. I…” Natasha sighs. “So I went to Osborn. Agreed to bring you to him if he’d leave me out of it. I was going to fuck him over and spring you. Obviously, he fucked me over before I had the chance.”

“Why, Nat?” Steve says quietly. “Why would you even think of giving us up like that?”

Natasha twists her lips. “I was hoping – if Osborn was able to track us, better than even Ross did, maybe – he might have been able to find Clint, too. If he’s anywhere, he’s probably talking to people in that field, seeing what they can do for him.”

Silence. 

“Barton’s long gone, Romanoff,” Bucky says eventually. “Whatever we find now, it won’t be him. And that’s if he hasn’t gotten himself killed by starting one too many fights he can’t win.”

“Why is he the one we gave up on?” she retorts.

“He couldn’t handle it, you know that. For all we know, he’s working with Osborn’s competition, seeing if they can find a cure for this. If Ross had come to him, he would’ve sold us out without a second thought. No backup plan.”

“And you made Osborn’s people aware of him,” Steve says. “That doctor’s still out there. He’s a liability, and Barton’s a liability. Together, they could…” 

Natasha looks down. “I made a bad call. Lost my sense of judgement. I’ll understand whatever you decide.” She gets up and strolls to the porch door. “I’ll be out here.”

* * *

“Why do I feel like you’re about to start going by Natalie again?” Tony says when he walks outside hours later.

Natasha shakes her head with a laugh, leaning forward with her elbows on the railing. The sun is setting, catching her hair with a red brighter than it normally is.

“Lay it on me,” she says. “I’m a big girl.”

“Well, understandably, Steve and Bucky are pissed, not sure they can trust you anymore. They want you to stay away for a bit.”

“How long is a bit?”

“You know, we’re immortal. We can hold grudges for a very long time.” Tony stares out across the water. “Give them two years. Four, at most.”

“And you?”

“Like I said. If anything had happened to the kid, we’d be having a different conversation. He’s happy to forgive you, by the way. Too good for any of us.”

Natasha turns so she’s facing him fully, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Damn, look at you.”

“What?”

“Once a dad, always a dad.”

Tony is lost for words. It’s an unfamiliar, unpleasant experience. “I – that’s not what–“

“No?” Natasha stretches with catlike grace. “If you say so.”

“Will you be okay?”

“Always am.”

“Don’t go looking for Barton, Nat. Like Bucky said, whatever’s out there, it’s not the man you knew.”

She just hums. “I’ll make it up to all of you. I know you don’t have any reason to trust me anymore, but – I’ll find Octavius. Make sure he can’t breathe a word about us to anyone else, not even his houseplants.”

“Let me know when it’s done.”

“It won’t end with him. This will happen again,” she says. “Humans are getting greedy. I thought Osborn genuinely wanted to help people, but he just wanted money. Octavius wanted to be remembered for all of history. There’s more like them. There always will be. They’ll figure it out, and they’ll come for us.”

“They can try,” Tony says.

“Trust no one, Antonio,” she says warningly. “Like Osborn said, death isn’t the end for us, but there are worse things.”

Tony shudders at the memory of Peter in his grip, of the way he’d promised lifetimes of torture, of both of them falling from the window.

“Take care of them,” Natasha says, and climbs over the edge of the porch railing with a smirk. “Farewell, Mr Stark.”

“So long, Miss Rushman.”

She hops down, landing in a perfect crouch, and walks down the empty street, around the corner. Out of sight.

“She’s gonna be okay, right?” Peter’s voice comes from the doorway.

“Yeah,” Tony says. Peter joins him at the railing. “Only those two in there are joined at the hip. She’ll be fine for a couple years.”

Peter nods. “Who’s Barton?”

“You remember we told you about the other one? That’s him. He and Nat were close for about a hundred years, before he dipped. We haven’t heard from him since.” 

“You think he’s trying to find a way out of this?”

“Maybe.” Tony twists his lips into a grim smile. “Maybe he has. Maybe he hasn’t. He hasn’t blown our cover either way, so that’s something.”

“So what now?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do we do?” Peter says. “What – what if there’s still someone out there who knows about us? What if this happens again?”

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you, kid, I promise–“

“I don’t want something to happen to you.”

Tony puts his hand on the back of the kid’s head with a sigh, rubbing his thumb up and down. “Nothing that happens will ever be so bad that you’ll lose me. Death – it doesn't tend to stick."

Peter looks far from convinced. “Who had to save your ass?”

“Yeah, looks like the universe brought us you at just the right time.” Tony grins. “Maybe it knows what it’s doing after all.”

“Do you believe in that?” Peter says. “A higher power, predetermination, fate, all that shit?”

“I’ve had three thousand years to get comfy with the idea of the supernatural, but I’ve yet to see anything that’s managed to convince me.”

“You’re over three thousand years old and we found each other because of dreams.”

“Touché.”

“Okay, but seriously.”

“Seriously.”

“We need to get ahead of this. Not to call you guys old or out of date, but I don’t think you understand how much trouble the Internet could cause you.”

Tony pulls the hand on Peter’s neck away and uses it to flick his ear instead.

“Hey! But for real, you’re on the verge of being the next big conspiracy theory, and once something’s out there, it never really goes away.”

Tony nods. “Then I think we have a friend to drop in on.”

Peter raises his eyebrows.

“Car. One hour. Pack your shit.”

“What shit?”

* * *

“Ah,” Everett Ross says upon finding them in his apartment. “Do I know too much?”

“What gave you that impression?” Bucky says, still gazing at his wall of newspaper clippings and old photographs.

Ross sighs and puts his grocery bags down. “Can I offer you a drink before you kill me?”

Tony, leaning against the wall with folded arms, snorts.

“We’re not gonna kill you,” Peter promises. “That’s not what we do.”

“Although,” Tony says, “if there’s coffee going, I’ll take some.”

Steve shakes his head and looks down to hide his grin.

Ross leans over, flicks his coffee machine on, trying to keep all four of them in his line of sight. “Shouldn’t there be five of you?”

“She’s on the naughty step,” Tony says with a tight smile. “I’m sure you understand why.”

Ross nods. “I need to apologise again for that. Everything with Osborn – it all got so big so fast. I’m sorry for anything that happened to you in there.”

Tony’s jaw clenches, just for a second. “You knew Nat was playing us the whole time. Stood there and watched it happen.”

“She had a gun.”

“I had a gun.”

“She told me she was playing Osborn. I thought she would’ve told all of you.”

“Clearly not.” 

“Tony,” Peter says quietly, “that’s not why we’re here.”

Tony sniffs and nods. “You heard the kid. You feel bad? Well, now you can make it up to us.”

“I – I can?”

“Look how easily you found them.” Peter nods to the wall. “It’s hard to disappear in a world like this, but that’s what we all need to do.”

“You want me to – hide you?”

“Well, you know what you did best,” Tony says. “Make sure no one else can do the same. We’re lucky you have a conscience, but we might not be so lucky next time. Every trace we leave, every face on a camera, every footprint in the snow – I want it gone. Can you help?”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I can do that. You guys just keep fighting the good fight.”

Peter looks back at Tony and they share a grin. _Safe_.

“All right,” Tony says, “let’s get to work.”

**Author's Note:**

> “Dobroye utro, Toshka” – “Good morning, Tony.” (Russian)
> 
> “Che due palle?” – “What the hell?” (Italian, literally “What two balls?”)
> 
> “¡Adiós, querido!” – “Bye, dear!” (Spanish)
> 
> “Te he echado de menos.” – “I’ve missed you.” (Spanish)
> 
> “A chonách san ort.” – “Serves you right.” (Irish)
> 
> “Hijo de puta.” – “Son of a bitch.” (Spanish)
> 
> “Danke.” – “Thank you.” (German)
> 
> “Bitte schön.” – “You’re very welcome.” (German)
> 
> “Va bene.” – “Okay.” (Italian)
> 
> “Andiamo.” – “Let’s go.” (Italian)
> 
> “Mierdita.” – “Little shit.” (Spanish) 
> 
> “Ná bí dúr.” – “Don’t be stupid.” (Irish)
> 
> “Fai attenzione, bambino.”– “Be careful, kid.” (Italian)
> 
> “No hablo italiano.” – “I don’t speak Italian.” (Spanish)
> 
> “Gabh suas ort féin.“ – “Fuck yourself.” (Irish)
> 
> i'm on tumblr at [akillerqueenwrites](https://akillerqueenwrites.tumblr.com), or my main blog [akillerqueenyouare](https://akillerqueenyouare.tumblr.com). come say hi, ask questions, leave prompts or just yell at me. i've also made a twitter, [@killerqueenao3](https://twitter.com/killerqueenao3) , if any of you want to talk to me there (it's mostly pictures of my dog). thank you for reading!


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